On a whim, a man orders flowers and has them delivered to his wife. When he comes home from work, he finds her in the kitchen, pruning back a few leaves and stems.
"So, what's the occasion, big boy?" she asks. He probably lost money at poker this week, the liar.
"Nothing, really," he says. "Does there have to be an occasion to give my beautiful bride flowers?" I wonder if she knows there's spaghetti sauce in the crook of her mouth? Probably ate lunch with that ass-grabbing doctor. Jesus, his hair is like jello; what does she see in him?
"Well, they're very nice flowers," she says. For lousy, cheap, discount pink carnations. Where are the roses? I'm good enough for roses. First, he forgets Valentine's Day, then my birthday. Now, he's too cheap to buy roses.
"Nothing but the best in my house," he says. He opens the fridge. She forgot to buy beer, again. Typical. In one ear and out the other . . . a ditz if there ever was one.
She puts her face into the bouquet and says, "They almost smell like spring." He makes a smelling gesture and picks up the aroma of burnt toast. Suddenly, with the mention of spring, they both think of April 7th, their fourth wedding anniversary. He will be moderately surprised when she serves him divorce papers before then. But hell, even the carnations could see that one coming.
(c) 2000 by -David James
PO Box 721, Linden, MI 48451
David James' books include A HEART OUT OF THIS WORLD (Carnegie Mellon Univ.
Press) and DO NOT GIVE DOGS WHAT IS HOLY (March Street Press). He works as
a dean of academics at Oakland Community College in Michigan, teaching on
the side while trying to keep the students and faculty happy. As he says,
"It's a thankless job."
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